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by angesradieux



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:48:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29888247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angesradieux/pseuds/angesradieux
Summary: Athelstan walks with a limp. Ragnar notices and wants to help his priest."He no longer walks with a cane, not because it wouldn’t help but because he’s grown weary of the sneering. He has always been weak, at least in all the ways that count in this world. Now he is more so. Not merely a foreign Christian, but now a cripple, too.Rollo looks at him with the same pitying disdain with which he might regard a lame horse a farmer doesn’t have the heart to put out of its misery. Floki watches him as a hunter stalking his prey.Kattegat is home, but it is exhausting. And right now, Athelstan just wants to rest. His limp grows more pronounced with each step and he no longer has the energy to hide it. His shoulders are stiff from the pain and his jaw set against it. With each step, the unevenness of the earth digs into the soles of his damaged feet—all he wants is to sit, and to hide in the privacy of his small house.Yet Ragnar’s voice makes him stop."
Relationships: Athelstan & Ragnar Lothbrok
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





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**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: Short little ficlet inspired by a wonderful drawing by LaughingLynx. (https://laughinglynx.tumblr.com/post/644859851778015232/according-to-some-research-i-vaguely-remember) You should totally check it out, she's amazing! Apparently Saxons in this time period typically wore soft-soled shoes, which would have been very hard on Athelstan, with the damage done to his feet. She very beautifully drew a picture of Ragnar giving Athelstan new shoes with harder soles to make walking less painful. And it was just such a wonderful thought I had to write a fic!
> 
> Hope you guys like it! Feedback is always appreciated.
> 
> ~Anges

“Priest!”

Athelstan heaves a long-suffering sigh. He’s glad, of course, to be back in Kattegat. It had taken some time away to realize, but the salt of the fjords in the air and sound of the Norse language have become synonymous with home—far more so than the Saxon tongue and the bustle of the king’s villa. And yet, in Kattegat as in Wessex, the stares follow him.

He no longer walks with a cane, not because it wouldn’t help but because he’s grown weary of the sneering. He has always been weak, at least in all the ways that count in this world. Now he is more so. Not merely a foreign Christian, but now a cripple, too.

Rollo looks at him with the same pitying disdain with which he might regard a lame horse a farmer doesn’t have the heart to put out of its misery. Floki watches him as a hunter stalking his prey.

Kattegat is home, but it is exhausting. And right now, Athelstan just wants to rest. His limp grows more pronounced with each step and he no longer has the energy to pretend it doesn’t exist. His shoulders are stiff from the pain and his jaw set against it. He aches as the unevenness of the earth digs into the soles of his damaged feet—all he wants is to sit, and to hide in the privacy of his small house.

Yet Ragnar’s voice makes him stop.

Athelstan can’t muster a smile. In fact, a shadowed touch of dread creeps into his eyes as he sees Ragnar beaming, hands behind his back.

“Priest,” he repeats, pace quickening.

One hand remains behind his back while the other arm drapes itself around Athelstan’s shoulders. “Come with me!”

Athelstan cranes his neck, trying to see what it is Ragnar’s trying so hard to hide. But whatever it is, it’s concealed by furs.

“Ragnar, please. I’m tired.”

He gives no indication that he’s heard Athelstan’s protest. Blue eyes glitter as he follows Athelstan’s gaze to the package he’s obscured, and he tuts, “Patience, priest.” There’s laughter in his voice, even as his grip on Athelstan tightens and he draws him closer, encouraging Athelstan to lean against him. At the very least, Ragnar has seen his pain.

Athelstan expects to be steered back towards Ragnar’s hall, to sit among his friends. He dreads it. It’s not always so bad, but right now he just doesn’t have it in him to smile and talk and pretend that everything is as it once was. It isn’t. And Athelstan just wants a moment of quiet and privacy to nurse his wounds. However, he senses the futility of his objections, and allows himself to be led wherever Ragnar would like to go.

His brow creases as they near the door of his home.

“You’ve not been yourself, priest,” he says as he shepherds Athelstan inside.

“I’m sorry—”

“For what?” Ragnar tilts his head, eyes narrowing a fraction. “It’s an observation,” he says lightly, “not an accusation.”

He encourages Athelstan to sit on his bed and then sits beside him. The mirth in his eyes is tinged with sorrow as he takes hold of Athelstan’s hand, thumb tracing the scar. “You’ve been in pain. I should have seen sooner.”

“I’m  _ fine _ .”

“You’re not.” Ragnar speaks firmly, leaving little room for argument. “I don’t like to see you limp.”

Athelstan’s lip curls a little. “Well. I hope you’ll forgive—”

“Athelstan.” At the use of his given name, the bitter retort dies on his lips. “I am trying to help. Let me.” He sets the parcel on his lap, folding back the furs to reveal a pair of shoes. He turns one on its side and shows Athelstan the sole, firmer than on any shoe he’d ever worn before. “To better protect your feet.”

“Ragnar.” For a moment, he says nothing else. He blinks as he feels his throat tighten just a little. He shakes his head, looking away. “I couldn’t… I… How much did these  _ cost _ ?”

“You can,” he says firmly. “And it doesn’t matter.”

He slides off the bed and sinks to his knees. With a more gentle touch than Athelstan would have thought Ragnar capable of, he carefully slides a soft-soled shoe off Athelstan’s foot. “You’re worth more to me than my entire burial hoard. I would surrender it all if it could undo this harm.”

Athelstan’s smile is strained, his voice taut with emotion as he says softly, “Thank you.” It’s not enough to convey all that he wants to say, and yet he doesn’t trust his voice enough to offer anything more. It feels wrong, the man who had once been his master and is now his earl on his knees at Athelstan’s feet. Part of Athelstan wants to squirm away from it, and yet the cautious touch with which Ragnar changes his shoes comes so gently and so naturally he can’t find it in him to object.

Within that single act, there is more vulnerability and care than Athelstan has seen from Ragnar through the entirety of their friendship. He doesn’t speak again, lest he break whatever fragile thing has settled between them.

Instead, as Ragnar comes to sit beside him again, Athelstan leans against him. The warmth in his eyes and the peace in his bearing as he sinks into the companionship of his dearest friend conveys all the gratitude he is as of yet unable to put into words.

Perhaps it isn’t Kattegat that has become Athelstan’s home. Not exactly, anyway.


End file.
